Sunset
by kisssanitygoodbye
Summary: The companions have to cope with the fact that even their Champion was just a mortal man. Post-DA2. Implied character death. Implied Anders/M!Hawke, Fenris/Isabela, Carver/Merrill


**I.**

Kirkwall is still covered in ash; people press wet cloth against their mouths to protect themselves from the poisonous air as they walk through the streets of Hightown that don't look all that different and yet still are, their hate and tears and screaming absorbed by thick, soot-stained walls. Stone doesn't forget.

But neither do people, not something like this.

There's something soft under her boot, and when she looks down she can see an arm protruding from the flagstone.

"I found another one," she tries to yell to one of the guards, but she nearly chokes on the words. They die halfway, swallowed by the ghosts of what was once Kirkwall's Chantry.

They have already retrieved dozens of corpses - both from the Chantry and the Gallows - and laid them on the ground at a safe distance from the collapsed building. Mages, Templars, Sisters and Brothers, side by side in death. Irony is not a big enough word to describe it.

There have only been four funerals so far.

One for Grand Cleric Elthina, whose ashes will be placed in the Chantry once it's been rebuilt. But no one knows when that is going to be.

People were crying at the funeral, some of the faces hidden by black veils as they recited the Chant in solemn whispers.

One for Knight-Commander Meredith. Her ashes will be laid to rest in the Gallows, next to all the other Templars who have died before her.

People had been arguing at the funeral. Had she been insane? Completely swallowed by her hate? Maybe just terribly misunderstood?

One for Senior Enchanter, Orsino. Nobody knows what to do with his remains.

People had been screaming at the funeral, Aveline and her guards had had to keep the crowd under control, assuring them repeatedly that he was not the mage to blame for all this.

And one for their Champion.

People were silent at his funeral. There weren't many people who could have talked about him, the real him, and those who could have were lacking the words. Only Varric and Aveline had attended. They were the only ones left of their _Merry band of misfits_.

His ashes are on their way to Ferelden now. It had taken them only seconds to make the decision, and they knew that it was the right one. _He should go home_, Varric had said, and that was all they had needed.

They are talking about erecting a statue now.

She has never uttered a word about it.

And while she drags the body of the young Sister through the ruins, all she can think about is home.

She knows what her first words to Donnic are going to be.

They will involve a red-headed brood.

**II.**

"Your face is going to stay that way if you're not careful," she says, and her words lack the usual lightness. The wind is strong on deck, and Fenris has to move closer to understand her.

He huffs. "I just... it feels wrong."

"I know."

"He deserved better."

"I know."

"I owed him more than this."

"I know."

She doesn't say, _me too_, but she doesn't have to. He can see it in her eyes.

She does say something else though, and he is once again surprised by her ability to make simple truths sound like the wisest words he has ever heard.

"He helped you gain your freedom, Fenris. And I think you're exactly where he would have wanted you to be. Don't look back. Never look back." She sighs, taking his hand into hers. "That doesn't mean you have to forget."

He nods, squeezing her fingers and looking out over the turbulent sea.

"He was a good man, our Hawke, wasn't he?"

"That he was."

She smiles, lifting the rum bottle in her other hand in salute, "To Hawke, then."

He takes the bottle from her when she is done, the left corner of his mouth lifting just a tiny bit.

"To Hawke."

**III.**

This is not how he wanted his story to end. He'd had it all planned out, down to the very last line.

They will never see the light of day now, but they won't be forgotten. The memory of a dwarf could do incredible things, and all the _What if's _and _Would'ves _and _Could'ves _had a tendency to hang around forever.

It's a shame, really. The epilogue had the potential to be the best thing he'd ever written. It would have been about hope, and new beginnings, and love that was strong enough to turn blue eyes back to amber ones and cause a smile to form on the saddest face he had seen in all his life.

_And from then on, they were fugitives together._

But he had scribbled down another epilogue too, to be on the safe side. Everything involving Blondie could go two ways, after all.

_Hawke didn't look back as he left it all behind, the dead eyes of his love haunting him for years to come. _

Varric had been prepared for that. He had said it himself, so many years ago.

_It's not a good story unless the hero dies._

But he had been wrong about that too.

Hawke had been his hero all this time, and he hadn't even realised.

**IV.**

"I can't believe that I didn't go to his funeral."

"We're having one for him now, aren't we?" Merrill is kneeling on the ground, digging into the earth with her bare hands. She's still not wearing shoes. Some things just don't change, and the thought is comforting.

The acorn in his hand feels heavy, though, as does his own body, weighed down by so many words that have remained unsaid. He'll never have a chance to voice them now, tell him everything he wanted him to know. _I'm sorry _would be on the top of his list, closely followed by a _Thank you_. And maybe another one. And another.

"He knew, Carver. I'm sure he did."

Carver hasn't realised that he has spoken his thoughts aloud. He swallows, dropping the acorn in Merrill's outstretched hand.

"You really do this every time someone dies?"

"We do," she says, carefully putting the acorn in the hole and covering it with earth. "Well, usually we bury the body too, but... "

"Yes."

She stands, lowering her head and reciting something in Elvish. He has heard it before, he's sure of that, but he can't remember when.

When she falls silent, he doesn't recite the Chant. He knows better than that.

"I should have been there, Merrill." The words just break out of him and he takes a deep breath, trying not to think back to times long gone, a place long destroyed, and the same feeling of loss that is surging back now, filling him up until he is sure he will burst from it. "We couldn't do it for Bethany, and I just..." He shakes his head. "I'm the only one left. And instead of giving him the farewell he deserves, I run off with an apostate."

Merrill wraps an arm around his waist, a sad smile tugging at her lips, "Oh _ma vhenan,_ but he of all people would understand, wouldn't he? He had planned on doing exactly the same."

**V.**

He walks for almost two days before he collapses, knees giving out under him, hands digging into the mossy ground and lungs gasping for air.

He shouldn't even be here, wherever here is.

But Varric had sent him away with a determination in his voice that he had never heard before.

_Get out of here, Blondie. We're not going to lose you to this now, do you understand me? You're not done yet._

So he had run.

Old habits die hard, after all. He releases a bitter laugh at the thought.

Varric was wrong, though. He _is _done.

How naive he had been, in those long, tense moments after the explosion, when Hawke had told him that they would leave together once the battle was won.

_We will be fugitives together._

No one important to him has ever kept their promises. But, until now, Anders had never been the force that made them break.

He gasps as images overwhelm him, and he lets his hands slide over the damp ground until he lies there amidst trees, standing silent witness as he whispers the words meant for _him _into nothingness, because that's all that is left. He'd never expected to still be alive by now, and there's nowhere for him to go. It feels like stolen time, this life his body still clings to.

"It should have been me. It was _supposed_to be me." His body shakes with unshed tears and dry sobs, leaves rustling above him as he curls up on his side, fingers tight around the Tevinter Chantry amulet, the only thing of his he has left. It's probably his mind playing tricks on him, but it feels colder around his neck now, heavier.

And when the clank of armour fills the air, drawing closer and closer, he doesn't get up.

Varric was wrong. He is done.


End file.
